


Not asking for forever

by saddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Angst, Biting, Feelings, M/M, Not!Fic, Trade Deadline, trade feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saddestboner/pseuds/saddestboner
Summary: José tries very hard not to think about all the trade rumors swirling around the team like storm clouds, ready to burst.





	Not asking for forever

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this when it looked like Ian might get traded but since he's not getting traded it's going up in all its unfinished glory. 
> 
> **ETA:** And then he got traded.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

José tries very hard not to think about all the trade rumors swirling around the team like storm clouds, ready to burst. It’s not his job to worry about those kinds of things and, anyway, he hasn’t been on anyone’s radar. He doesn’t have to worry about packing up the last four years of his life and moving to a new town, a new clubhouse. He doesn’t have to worry about learning new names and faces, or troubling himself with utilities and water bills—and how do you break a lease anyway? 

He gets to the clubhouse a little late today—congestion I-75 on made the half-hour commute a little more miserable than usual—and he’s already trying to think of ways to sneak into the clubhouse unnoticed as he gets out of his car and heads into the ballpark.

There’s a ten-car pileup of reporters in the clubhouse when José pops his head in to assess the situation. He doesn’t see any of his teammates, so he figures he’s home free. José slips in behind the crowd and creeps to his locker unnoticed.

José sets up shop in front of his locker and begins to slip out of his jacket.

“Iggy, where the hell have you been?”

José looks up to find McCann glaring at him from the clubhouse doors. 

José shrugs, tries to look apologetic and mostly fails. “Traffic," he says.

“You haven’t checked your phone,” McCann accuses, eyes narrowing.

“No. Why?” José reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out his phone, unlocking it. 

Five missed calls, three voicemails, and fifteen texts. José’s stomach sinks like a stone plummeting to the bottom of the ocean. Maybe he was on someone’s radar after all.

José taps at the little green text message icon. His palms are suddenly clammy and he wipes them off on his T-shirt.

McCann’s hand shoots out and tugs his phone down. José looks over, frowning. He hadn’t noticed him come over to his locker.

“Iggy, Kins got traded,” McCann says.

“Shut up.” José glances back at his dimmed iPhone screen, but McCann pushes it down again. 

“Good Lord, you’re a pain in the…” McCann doesn't bother finishing that thought. He rakes a hand through his hair and huffs an impatient sigh.

“Bad joke. You’re not funny,” Jose says, shoving his phone in his locker. “Is Kins in on it too?”

McCann rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you’d bothered to check your phone in the last half hour…”

José glances down at his phone. 

**Hey Iggy if u get this, text me. Looks like Im going to the Brewcrew.**

All the tiny black text starts swirling into a gray soupy blur. 

He lifts his head and eyes the group of reporters and camera men. They’re camped out in front of an empty locker and, with a growing sense of horror, José realizes it’s—it _was_ —Ian’s locker.

“Ian, is he here?” José asks. 

“He left to catch a flight to Milwaukee, like, fifteen minutes ago,” McCann says, backing away from José’s locker. He crosses his arms over his chest.

José should probably apologize to the coaches for being late, accept whatever punishment they feel like doling out, be the good, dutiful soldier. Instead, he sits in front of his locker and stares at the group of reporters in front of what had once been Ian’s locker.

McCann sighs. José feels him pat at his shoulder without really feeling it. It all feels like it’s happening to some other José Iglesias and he’s just watching from a great height. Up in the clouds somewhere.

“Sorry, man,” McCann says, pulling his hand back. “I know you guys were close.”

José rubs at his mouth and starts gnawing at his fingernails. He can’t stop looking at the empty locker, with its missing nameplate, or the crowd of reporters like vultures waiting to pick a corpse clean.

He’s seen teammates—friends—traded, released, demoted. He’s lost friends to illness, sudden unexpected tragedy. _José’s_ even been traded. It shouldn’t matter so much to him. It’s not like Ian died or anything.

José turns and grabs his phone, unlocking it and pulling up Ian’s text. He rereads it, mouths it to himself. Sounds out the vowels and the consonants with his own lips and tongue. It still doesn’t feel real.

“C’mon,” McCann says, reaching out and tugging at José’s shoulder. “You’re already late. You’re any later, they might fine you.”

José looks up at him, blinking. “What?”

“Kangaroo court.” McCann frowns. 

“You think I care for kangaroo court?” José frowns back at him. “Ian’s gone. Our team is… It’s…”

José can’t quite find the words to give voice to what’s sitting heavily in his heart right now. 

“Guys get traded. Part of the business. Now, come on,” McCann urges. He claps his hands at José.

Normally, José would snipe at him. Fire off some smart retort. But today isn’t a normal day.

José gets up and starts undressing, stripping off his T-shirt and pants methodically. He feels McCann on the periphery, waiting around as if to see for himself that José is getting ready. He’s unbearable. 

José pulls on his jersey and thinks about the number on the back— **1** —and remembers how angry people had gotten when he took it. And how Ian had decided to take **3** as his number so they could honor Trammell and Whitaker’s legacy. 

José sighs.

After he’s finished dressing, he goes find the coaches to apologize for being late. 

He ends up getting pulled from the lineup as punishment, but José is okay with that. It doesn’t feel right to play to the right side of second without Ian there to anchor him. 

Romine and Machado do well enough.

José leans over the padded green railing and watches them, mentally critiques Romine’s form at second. 

He feels someone shuffle up behind him, brush into his shoulder at one point during the game. José turns and finds Miggy looking at him. Miggy had been held out of tonight’s game too, though not for being dumb enough to show up late. José lets his eyes drift to Miggy’s right wrist, wrapped with an Ace bandage.

“ _¡Eh!_ ” José says, keeping his head down, half-expecting a lecture.

“ _¿Cómo estás?_ ” Miggy drapes a thick, tattooed forearm over José’s shoulders.

José shrugs. “ _Así así_ ,” he replies.

Miggy squeezes José by the shoulders before trundling off. José watches him leave, wondering what that was all about. 

He sleepwalks through most of the game, and he can’t really bring himself to care. 

It’s oppressively hot and boring, and he keeps finding himself—catching himself—searching the dugout for Ian, to tell him about a funny joke he found on Instagram or something he saw on TV the other night. But the spot where Ian usually sat is empty now.

José doesn’t know what they got back for him, but he’s sure it’s not enough. It could never be enough. You don’t replace somebody like that. 

Afterwards, Ausmus grabs José as he’s about to follow his teammates out of the dugout for the clubhouse, tells him he wants to have a chat. José’s stomach twists itself into knots, his hands start sweating again, and his fingers go cold and tingly. 

“Yeah, skip.” José hears himself say the words, but the voice doesn’t sound like his own. 

“Come with me,” Ausmus says, motioning to the little manager’s office tucked between the dugout and the clubhouse. 

José follows him in—he catches a glimpse of Romine and McCann looking on from the hallway, curiosity in their eyes—and Ausmus closes the door behind them. José wonders what those two are thinking. Do they think José’s been traded too? Do they _hope_ he’s been traded?

Ausmus gestures for José to sit, so he pulls up a folding chair while his manager sits behind a glossy mahogany desk. José eyes a pile of manila folders, stuffed with sheaves of lined paper covered in tiny handwriting. 

“I think you know why you’re here,” Ausmus says, sounding grim.

“You’re trading me,” José says, nodding, lowering his head in shame.

“What? No,” Ausmus says, and José jerks his head up. “Why would you think we’re trading you? Have you been reading Twitter?”

José frowns. “No. I just think… the last time I have a talk that start like this, I get sent over here from Boston,” he says.

Ausmus shakes his head. “I just wanted to talk to you about missing B.P.,” he says, sitting back and crossing his arms behind his head.

José lets out his breath in a long, low whistle. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ausmus says. “So, I expect that won’t happen again.”

“Definitely, no,” José agrees, nodding eagerly. “I just got caught in traffic and—”

Ausmus waves a hand dismissively. “I’m not interested in excuses. I know stuff happens. All I care about is that it doesn’t happen again,” he says.

“It won’t,” José says.

His manager nods. “Anything else you wanna talk about before I let you go?”

José thinks about Ian and starts nervously twisting his hands in the bottom of his jersey. “Um, I don’t think so.”

“You sure?” Ausmus prods, drumming his fingertips on the armrest of his swivel chair. 

José sighs and gets up, pushing the folding chair aside. “No. I’ll be on time tomorrow.”

“Good,” Ausmus says, glancing up at him. He pauses, like he has something more to say. He starts shuffling some folders and papers around on his desk instead. “Leave the door open on your way out.”

José does as he’s asked, and leaves.

***

The drive back to his place in Birmingham seems longer than usual. José glances at his watch when he pulls into his driveway and is surprised he actually managed to shave five minutes off his usual arrival time. José unbuckles himself and twists around in his seat to grab his coat and backpack out of the back when he notices an unfamiliar car with tinted windows sitting in his driveway. 

Frowning, José gathers his bag and jacket to his chest. He slips his hand into his backpack and grabs for his phone, just in case. 

José pushes open the car door and gets out, shutting it gently behind him. He approaches the other car and taps on the window, before stepping back.

The window rolls down and—

“Ian?” José lets out a startled laugh. 

Ian hangs out the window and grins at José. A sudden stiff wind ruffles his dark hair. “Hey, Candelita,” he says, squinting up at him.

“They say you leave for the Brewers,” José says, laughing some more. He slips the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. “I don’t think I’m gonna see you ’cause I showed up late and you already left.”

Ian opens the car door and gets out, shutting it and leaning back against it. “You gonna invite me in or not?” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t you have to go?” José asks.

“I got, like, forty-eight hours to report or whatever,” Ian says, waving that off with a flick of his hand. “And I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my second favorite shortstop.”

“Only second?” José smiles anyway. Ian’s compliments are always backhanded, but he doesn’t mind, he’s used to it. 

“I played short in college, you know,” Ian teases.

“Come, come in.” José pulls his house keys out and waves for Ian to follow him in.

As José lets them in and kicks off his shoes, he can hardly believe this is the first time Ian’s ever been over to his place in the nearly three years they’ve been teammates. The thought—that this is both the first and last time—hits José in the chest like an errant fastball and he has to blink rapidly against the unexpected sting.

Ian slips off his shoes too and reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “Nice place you got,” he says, and it sounds like he actually means it.

José’s not really sure what to say to that, so he just shrugs. “Thanks. You thirsty? I got beer in the fridge.”

“Sure,” Ian says. “Sounds good.”

José leads Ian into the kitchen and grabs them both a couple beers, then heads to the den. José hadn’t been expecting any guests, so the place is in a state of disarray but Ian doesn’t even seem to notice or care. He just twists off the cap of his beer with his keychain and takes a long slug.

“Here, sit,” José says, knocking some magazines off the couch.

Ian snorts softly and sits down. When José goes to sit in his armchair, Ian just pats the empty spot next to him. José gets up and sits next to Ian on the couch, and their knees bump companionably. José taps his beer bottle against Ian’s.

“To… playoff runs,” José says.

“And limited no-trades,” Ian quips, tapping his bottle back against José’s.

“And a rebuild,” José mutters, darkly.

Ian laughs quietly. “Maybe you’ll be next,” he jokes. “Didn’t Houston just lose Correa for a couple months?”

José shrugs and sips at his beer. “Not a good fit, I don’t think,” he says, glumly. “And they got Marwin Gonzalez. Don’t need me.”

Ian puts his bottle on the little wooden coffee table and drops an arm loosely over José’s shoulders. “How ’bout back to Boston,” he teases. “You can play third, right?”

“Shut up,” José mumbles, shaking his head. Boston doesn't need him.

Ian jostles him. “You’re not going anywhere anyway,” he says. “You’re gonna turn things around here.”

“Wish you were staying,” José says. “We should turn it around together.”

Ian sighs. “I’m old, man. I wanna ring.”

José reaches up, without thinking, and clasps his hand over the one of Ian’s that’s resting lightly on his shoulder. Ian’s eyes flicker and José wonders if he should let him go. Most of the time it seems like Ian only barely tolerates him, anyway. 

“You will,” José says, nodding and managing a tight-lipped smile. He slips his hand away from Ian’s. “You’ll put them over.”

“Sure hope so,” Ian muses. He tips his head back and gives José a considering look as he drapes his arms over his chest.

“I’ll miss you,” José blurts.

“Now don’t go getting all sentimental on me,” Ian jokes. He grins again at José and reaches over to ruffle his hair. 

José tilts his head and closes his eyes as Ian’s fingers move in his hair. It feels nice, Ian just petting his hair like this. José sighs again.

“Can you stay?” he asks, blinking his eyes open and turning toward Ian.

Ian laughs and pulls his hand back, letting it fall into his lap. “Can’t exactly do that, Iggy.”

“They don’t need you,” José says, putting a hand out and clasping Ian’s knee. “They got Sogard. What they want with you, anyway? You’re ours.”

Ian purses his lips. “Don’t belong to you anymore,” he says, laughing wryly. “Gonna get ‘property of the Milwaukee Brewers’ tattooed right here.” Ian drags his index finger across his forehead.

José watches him, watches how his lips move around the words, and shifts his hand away from Ian’s knee. “Gonna be weird without you,” he says, softly. 

Ian sits upright and his arm slips from around José’s shoulders. “You’ll get used to not having me around.”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” José mutters, folding his arms across his chest and sulking. 

“Don’t really have much of a choice.” Ian crosses his arms behind his head. 

José moves lightning-quick, tucks himself in against Ian’s side. Ian’s arm drops back around his shoulders and curls his fingers in the sleeve of José’s T-shirt. They sit like that for a while and, after a time, José feigns drowsiness and lets his head drop onto Ian’s shoulder. Ian keeps his fingers curled in José’s sleeve.

“Falling asleep on me?” Ian rubs his cheek against the top of José’s head.

“Yes,” José mumbles.

“Should probably get going then, you need your sleep,” Ian chides.

“Don’t.” José closes his eyes and pretends to yawn, hiding it behind a fist.

“Gotta let me go at some point, Iggy,” Ian murmurs. His breath curls against José’s forehead and runs through his hair like his fingers did earlier.

Ian starts to sit up and he moves his hand from José’s shoulder. His fingers brush down his bare arm and draw goosebumps. José curls closer, grabbing onto the front of his shirt. Ian stops trying to move away, just goes completely still. José wraps his hand in Ian’s shirt and presses his knuckles against his stomach.

Ian’s breath is warm and minty against his eyelids. He must’ve brushed his teeth after the game.

“José…” Ian reaches down to pry José’s fingers open.

José lets go and instead touches Ian’s face, gently. 

Ian sighs—a heavy shrug of a sound—and wraps his fingers around José’s wrist. José moves closer even as he can feel Ian backing away and then he slides his lips over Ian’s. 

There isn’t a lot of give. Ian isn’t a soft person. But his hands land softly on José’s back, almost gentle.

He falls back for a moment to look at Ian. Ian’s eyes are shut tight, like he doesn’t want to see José. Like if he can keep his eyes shut he can pretend it’s not José kissing him.

José touches his face again and presses his lips back against Ian’s.

Ian’s mouth finally falls open and José takes that as an invitation. A hand cups the back of his neck and blunt fingernails dig into his skin, and then Ian is finally kissing him back. 

And then Ian is pushing him away, a hand pressing against his shoulder. José tries to lean into another kiss, fingers skating down Ian’s chest, but Ian holds him at arm’s length. 

José blinks his eyes open. Ian stares back at him, brow knotted, his dark hair sticking up in tufts on his head. José just wants to get his mouth back on Ian’s mouth, and he just wants to get his hands on his body. Wants to show him how much he’ll be missed.

“Iggy,” Ian rasps, still with a hand pressing against his chest, “what’re you doing?”

“Want you to stay,” José says.

“You know I gotta go,” Ian says, letting his hand fall away. He scratches at the back of his head. “I gotta get home and pack my shit up and… I just can’t do this with you.”

“What’re you talking about?” José asks.

“This. You.” Ian pats him on the chest. 

His tone is far too kind and gentle. José wishes he’d yelled instead, maybe even lashed out with a fist. 

“Ian,” he tries.

“Iggy, I really gotta—” Ian starts to get up from the couch.

“Please,” José says, jumping up too, reaching for his shoulder.

Ian looks down at his hand on his shoulder, then at José’s face. At his eyes. “Look, man. It’s baseball. I mean, you’ve gone through it too. It’s not like I’m dead.”

José squeezes his shoulder. Leaves his hand there, holding on tightly. “You don’t have to go yet. You say yourself. You got forty-eight hours to report,” José says, a little desperately.

“This is unfair.” Ian shrugs José’s hand off his shoulder. “I can’t stay.”

“Not asking for forever,” José says, dropping his eyes.

Ian reaches up and slides a hand around the back of José’s neck, but he doesn’t move to pull him closer or push him away. He just holds onto him.

“You want this,” Ian says. It’s more of a statement than a question. “You really wanna do this, even knowing I can’t stick around.” 

José nods. “Wanna have this more than not having anything at all,” he says.

Ian looks at him, pulls his hand down from José’s neck. “Okay,” he says, “fine.”

José slips a hand around Ian’s and pulls him toward the hall. This isn’t an exceptionally large place, but it seems almost cavernous now. José feels Ian’s breath on his neck and his hand is warm and solid in his own. 

Ian pulls him back by the hand as he’s about to open his bedroom door. José looks at him, lifts his eyebrows in question.

“You sure about this?” Ian asks.

“Yeah. You?” José’s not sure what he’ll do if Ian changes his mind. His heart clenches in his chest like an anxious fist as he waits Ian out, anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian says.

José guides him into the room and snaps on the light. Ian’s hand is on his hip, tugging him closer. José turns until he can slip an arm around his neck and kiss him properly. Ian slips his hands over his face and kisses back tentatively. He can feel Ian still holding a piece of himself back as he drags his mouth away from José’s, but that’s okay. José is fine with this.

Ian’s the one who pushes him onto the bed and crawls over him, mouth fixing on a point somewhere between José’s neck and shoulder. José slides his hands underneath Ian’s shirt and pushes it up his back until Ian pulls away to tug it over his head.

A tiny gold star dangles from his neck on a chain. José flicks his fingernail at it. 

Ian rolls his eyes. “Don’t do that. It's weird.”

José laughs and does it again, and the little star goes spinning. Ian knocks José’s hand away and pushes him against the mattress with a hand on his chest. José stares up at him, at the shadows that gather in the hollow of his throat. At his bare chest, and the gold star.

Ian pulls José’s shirt up his chest and yanks it off. His mouth presses soft kisses against his clavicle. José closes his eyes and slides his fingers into Ian’s hair. He feels Ian’s hand at his waistband, opening his pants. José lifts his hips and Ian works his pants down his hips a little bit. 

José pulls Ian on top and clutches at his back, digging his nails in, teeth finding his pulse and biting gently.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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